A Long Expected Party
by nosmaeth
Summary: The Chieftain of the North comes home to rest; only to find his sanctuary of peace disturbed by curious happenings. Can he find comfort despite the disturbance? One-shot. Bookverse.


**A Long Expected Party**

It was a sight that warmed his heart; fires burning, men eating, children either playing or helping out their elders; his home bustled bellow tbe boulder he now stood on. He came upon the village at dusk, unforseen but not wholly unlooked-for, he hoped. With weary feet and jaded heart, he came. He longed for them, his brothers, his friends. He longed for this home, unrefined though it was. Life in the wild was hard perhaps but not without comfort, and free of the courtliness of his other home. He longed for its freedom and good company. And yet he could not allow himself the pleasures of homecoming. Instead he stood motionless and tense; turning his back to them, facing far away, staring into the vivid horizont...and softly cursing the sight.

'You do not like this.'

When Halbarad came upon him, he already knew that his friend was aware of his approach, motionless though the chieftain remained. Since he was not met with words of either welcome or reproach, he risked putting a comforting hand to the chieftain's shoulders. At times Aragorn was unaproachable, distant and so, (he searched for the appropriate word) so _otherworldy_ that touching him was an unthinkable concept. Those times unsettled Halbarad for he thought he knew him, he thought he had his trust and his love, and yet… And yet the chieftain had seen and done great deeds since they last wandered together in the Wild, and his merry spirit turned brooding and sombre more and more frequently these days.

Tonight however he did not seem so intimidating. But he was tense and uncomfortable, and Halbarad thought he guessed why.

'What gave me away, friend?' Aragorn asked with a half-smile, but it was not one of true merriment.

'Oh, I could not say, really,' Halbarad said, decidedly keeping his tone light. When it mattered their chieftain was the most level-headed, logical and sensible leader they could ask for, but at times he had strange moods and behaved as a young lass would; whimsically and unpredictably. At those times conversing him required tact and skill and thick skin, for when he was angered the captain's words scratched like a cat's claws. 'Probably the endless stream of curses that flow from your mouth ever since it started. Don't think that your polished Elvish words go ununderstood by your peers. You know the twins visit and teach us quite frequently too.'

'Teach you what?' Aragorn murmured. 'Sindarin swearwords?'

'Amongst other things….' Halabarad smirked. 'I must say they are not very… inventive. Nor are they particularly threatening.'

At this they shared a true smile; though Aragorn was raised in Rivendell, he had seen much and lived amongst different people. To this day he still „swore" in Sindarin, but the expressions were fair and light and „so very elvish" to him now. They hardly seemed swearwords at all.

'They are the „Fair Folk", after all.' He smiled and tried not to think of Arwen and what she would say if she were to hear him talk like this. Swearing made him real in the eyes of his people, it made him a man, but it made him feel so mortal, so fragile, so underserving of the riches he was brought up with. And so unworthy of Her.

'Even if I were not to understand your flowing Sindarin phrases, your shoulders are tense as a bow, your knuckles are white and you keep gritting your teeth in a particularly unflattering way since it'd begun.'

To this bluntness Aragorn had no answer, only an annoyed frown. But he did not shrug the comforting hands away. He knew it was an awkward gesture for his friend; Halbarad was of smaller stature so he had to reach up. Maybe that thought was enough to make him appreciate the gesture, to allow him to slump his shoulders slightly in admittance…

'I really do not like it.'

'Why?'

He had not talked about this to anyone; the marble on his mothers grave was unmoved by such tales.

'They remind me of death. And the Enemy. And of pain. Pain that I have caused.'

Halbarad waited patiently. Perhaps the arm that he wrapped around the Chieftain's shoulders numbed somewhat by the end of his tale, perhaps he could have done with some dinner by then as well, but he waited as Aragorn unburdened himself.

Some news they have heard of the victory over Umbar, and some have guessed the identity of the so-called Thorongil, but Aragorn never spoke of his own deeds to his people and they were forced to guess or to listen to the dubious tales that traveling Dwarves or Men decided to share in the Prancing Pony. To hear the events with his own words, to listen as he recounted his actions was an honor and a rare privilage. Halbarad felt that he would endure more serious discomforts if it meant he could help his captain by sharing in his hardships. Even if only by listening to them.

'You had to make a choice. And it was the best one.'

'Aye. That I have come to understand. But the cost was so overwhelmingly great that my heart is still shadowed by the memory, long time ago though it was.'

Halbarad had no comfort to give. They were leaders, commanders in war. They all knew the burden of choice, the constant guilt of those who survived…

'This is different.'

'Smoke, fire and noise. ' Aragorn frowned dissaprovingly. 'The Enemy has dark devices with such effects. The very nature is awake and unsettled around us. What is the need?'

'The evil is not in the tool, but in the purpose with which its wielded. The Little Folk are gladdened by this. Their childlike pleasure in all things glowing and fair is usually enough to make you content.'

'Usually.' He nodded. 'But what joy comes of this…I can not fathom.'

'Luckily it is not done for your joy and pleasure, friend!' Halbarad chuckled. 'Come with me, Aragorn. The others are missing your presence; rare indeed it had been these past years. And you must be hungry.'

For the first time that evening Aragorn allowed the smell of stew to fill his nostrils and his stomach growled in insistent approval. The chieftain nodded with a sigh and turned his back to the vividly glowing, flashing horizont.

'Grant me a favor, friend!' He stopped Halbarad before entering the vilage, and the ranger looked at him questioningly. 'Gandalf is planning to visit us soon. Please do not mention him that I disliked his fireworks.'

'Dislike is an understatement!' Halbarad snorted, but he nodded his consent. 'Do not worry, I have no desire to have my cheiftain on the receiving end of a wizard's wrath. If there is one person queerer and vainer still than you are, it has to be Mithrandir.'

Aragorn raised his brows, but smiled in return and together they joined the dining company of the rangers, allowing the food and wine to comfort them, the noise and warmth of good company to swallow them and keep their heavy memories and dark worries away for the night.

* * *

A _N: The time of this one-shot should be obvious to anyone who reads it with careful eyes, the place however is uncertain even to me. It should be somewhere fairly close to the Shire in a secret village of the Rangers, somewhere in the Wild._

 _The story that Aragorn recounts here is his (first) victory over the Corsairs of Umbar. In the Gulf of Umbar he surprised the Corsairs and burned a great part of their ships and he slew their captain. In my headcanon there were people (slaves too) on the ships though, when he burned them (which is quite plausible if you consider the fact that they were suprised.) This was a grim choice Aragorn had to make - sacrificing innocent lives in order to achieve victory - and in my headcanon it is something that keeps haunting him. (Especially since there are songs still sung about it in Gondor and in other parts of Middle Earth as well.) Granted, if I ever get around to publishing my half-finished novel about that particular period of Aragorn's life, this whole scene will make a little bit more sense than it does now._

 _But I do believe (and hope) that its understandable as it is._


End file.
